


Dangers of Bedtime Reading

by little_ogre



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Getting Together, Goody and Billy reads Moby Dick, M/M, Moby Dick spoilers, Period-Typical Racism, Price fighting, Reading, Romance, Slow Burn, Violence, Virginity, tenously feasible literary references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2020-02-29 17:46:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18783094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_ogre/pseuds/little_ogre
Summary: Goodnight had started reading out loud to Billy a couple of months into their partnership.Billy bought the book on his own after nearly a year of riding together. It was already pretty worn, the covers lost at some point and the title leaf soiled with dirty thumb marks but it was thick, like a doorstop, promising to last them a good long while. Billy held it in his hands, turning the dog eared pages over and feeling the soft paper with his fingers before taking it to the counter and putting it with the rest of his supplies.On the smudged title leaf of the first book he has ever bought he can read two words, and underneath that is says “The Whale”.





	1. Chapter 1

Goodnight had started reading out loud to Billy a couple of months into their partnership.

 

He always had a battered old book packed away somewhere in his saddlebags and there was always the odd evening when he would light their little lamp and read, until the quiet and his inattention started to grate on Billy's nerves. He wanted Goodnight’s attention, not able to explain why, just that he coveted and hoarded it, like a miser with coin. Goodnight's words, his blue gaze, his admiration, there was a hunger in Billy who wanted it all. It eased an ache in his shoulders that he hadn't known he carried and he resented it when it was directed elsewhere. Evenings when Goody read was long and dull.

 

“What you read?” Billy snapped waspishly one night, when not even sharpening his knives could pass the time anymore. Goody looked up, all good-natured befuddlement and smiled.

 

“Poems by Tennyson,” he said.

 

“Any good?” Billy asked and Goody’s smile grew wider and he cocked his head.

 

“Depends on what you like,” he said and just like that he was off, finding a poem and reading it out loud and Billy, much to his surprise, loved it.

 

After that Goodnight read whatever book he’d found out loud. The selection wasn’t great but they were not picky readers. Dime novels, romances, and the occasional magazine or even novel, or volume of poetry, if they were lucky.

 

Goody took to reading the newspaper in bed, from first page to last with agricultural news and advertisement and all, and Billy would listen from his own bed, smoking with his hands behind his head. He learnt a lot about the white man’s United States this way.

 

Billy bought the book on his own after nearly a year of riding together. It was the first book  Billy had bought himself, Goody being the normal purveyor and pilferer of their fare. He had found it at the general store in a miscellaneous barrel with odds and ends accumulated but not sold. It was already pretty worn, the covers lost at some point and the title leaf soiled with dirty thumb marks but it was thick, like a doorstop, promising to last them a good long while. Billy held it in his hands, turning the dog eared pages over and feeling the soft paper with his fingers before taking it to the counter and putting it with the rest of his supplies. The proprietor raised his eyebrows a little before cracking a smile.

 

“Guess you always need soft paper on the road, eh?” he said, laughing at his own joke.

 

Billy hesitated when it came to actually giving the book to Goodnight though. He didn’t want to seem like he was encouraging him. Honestly Billy was still trying to give the appearance that Goody’s reading out loud was something he barely puts up with rather than keenly anticipated, and actually giving Goody a book himself might send the entirely wrong message. When Billy thought about Goody finding out how much he likes travelling with him, or how much he just plain likes Goody, it was like a black bottomless chasm opened up inside him and the blood in his veins ran icy cold. Goody can never know that.

 

Billy could read in English, after a fashion. He could actually read in multiple languages. He read _Hangul_ pretty well, not that there is much of it around these days, he could even make a decent fist of _Hanja_ and he could spell his way through a wanted poster in Western print. It’s just that the process was slow and humiliating, he finds his lips mouthing the words and often he has to sound it out syllable by syllable. When Goody was gone from their hotel rooms he sometime picked up whatever text they had lying around and practiced, brow furrowed and shoulders hunched. He was getting better but it’s still too slow. He’d rather feign complete ignorance than let Goody see him so dull and stupid. On the smudged title leaf of the first book he has ever bought he can read two words, which are possibly a name, not a name he’s ever heard of but he didn’t know “Goodnight” could be a name before he met him, and underneath that is says " _The Whale_ ".

 

“ _The Whale_ ” is a promising title, it could be an adventure novel. The last book they read was a romance and Goody had to pause all the time to explain words like “bower” and “'twixt” and the plot was pretty light on, well, anything that wasn't innocent maidens in diaphanous nighties not too given to critical thinking. Goody had to explain the word diaphanous too

(“It means, um, I think in this particular context it means see-through,” he had said, sounding only slightly embarrassed and Billy had gaped at him for a whole minute. “Wait Goody,” he said, “Cordelia has been running around on the..the more-thing in a see-through dress? Goody, that Don Alonzo has been alone with her, that ain't right! Is this a raunchy novel?" And Goody had laughed warm and inviting, his blue eyes glittering and Billy had felt hot all over. In the end it had been more implied than explicit but it still had made Billy a little hot under the collar.)

 

After a couple of days of prevaricating he silently put the book on Goody’s bedroll when they make camp, and pretended he wasn’t warmed by Goody’s exclamations of delight.

 

They put their bedrolls closer together these days, within an easy reach of an arm, if Goodnight wakes up with nightmares Billy will be right there, and if Billy wakes up he can reach out a hand and rest it on Goodnight’s back, feeling him warm and hale and breathing. They don’t really talk about this, it’s just another part of the shared armour they are building against the world. When they are reading Billy usually lounged next to Goodnight, sometimes even pillowing his head against his leg or leaning against his side. Eyes gazing out in the darkness letting Goody’s words paint pictures before them.

 

Goody sat down and opened the book, and squinted against the small print.

 

“Can’t say I’ve heard about this one before,” he says. “Was written before the war, by some yankee. Hawthorne had written something about the merits of the author, I think. Liked his poetry. But that was long ago, in my college days.”

 

He smiled nervously, brow briefly clouded before he settled down, clearly shying from whatever memories it had brought up and Billy tentatively put a hand on his shin, to ground him in the present and Goody smiled at him, painful but genuine.

 

“Hm,mhmh, lot of nonsense and poetry here in the beginning about whales, which I reckon we can skip over; we can always go back if it turns out to be important. No, wait a little, this one’s nice. Here, listen: _Oh the rare old Whale, mid storm and gale, In his ocean home will be, A giant in might, where might is right, And King of the boundless sea._ Has a ring to it, don’t it? So with that out of the way I guess we can start on the real story.”

 

He leaned back against the boulder they were using for back rest and Billy lit a cigarette, drawing in a mouthful of blue, bitter smoke.

 

“ _Call me Ishmael._   _Some years ago - never mind how long precisely-_ ” Goody read and Billy breathed the smoke out, watching it hang and curl in the air, transforming into the ocean, the endless mass of water that Goody was reading about.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Herman Melville published Moby Dick in 1851 to the general acclaim of nobody, and it went to print two times before his death, once in 1863 and again in 1871. If the events at Rose Creek takes places in 1879 it is possible, while unlikely, that a copy of Moby Dick from one of the later print dates made it to the Wild West in the luggage of some enthusiastic greenhorn. Thats my story anyway, and I'm sticking to it.
> 
> I'm sort of hating the title of this now, if anyone thinks I should change it or have a suggestion I'm all ears.


	2. Chapter 2

  
Billy had always thought Goody talked a lot but he was downright taciturn compared to this Ishmael. It seemed like he had never met a sentence that he couldn’t send spiralling into twisting asides and subclauses.

Their progress in the book was slow, a conspiracy of small print, the meandering text and unfortunate events delaying them, a deluge one night and high winds the next, a competition in a dirt scratch of town which left Goody silent and on edge, drinking heavily from his flask, not in the mood for reading.

Even without their reading the evenings were still pleasant though, spent talking and smoking, Billy teaching Goody the basics of knife throwing. He was never going to be as good as Billy but his aim was true and he had had disposition for practice.

One night when Billy frowned into his cigarette case, clearly remembering smoking his last one at noon but forgetting to refill, Goodnight, seemingly without even having to think about it, handed the cigarette he was smoking so that they were sharing. Billy tried not to think about Goody’s mouth, the tip of his tongue pressed against the end of the paper cylinder, the slight hint of wetness. It made his head swim, and his heart tap against his ribcage. Goody seemed slightly pink when he passed it back, a slight hitch in his otherwise easy patter.

“I think this Ishmael is making a lot of fuss over nothing,” Goody said a couple of evenings later with a frown towards the book and Ishmaels many compunctions about sharing a bed with a wild cannibal. “I mean, sleep is sleep no matter who you have for company. I slept in the same bed as my brothers until I went to war and then there really weren't enough beds to go around to have one to yourself, even if you were wounded. Why you and I slept in the same bed in that last hotel we stayed in and the only thing I had to be afraid of was your icy toes!”

Billy didn't say anything, not being able to pretend that the description of the cannibal Queequeg did not hit some hidden and sore spot. He as aware that description of his face as a “dark, purplish yellow colour” could be applied to his own, though he had never been yellow before he came to America, together with a slew of other unflattering adjectives for the people of his kind. He had at one point or another heard them all, and the description of Queequeg’s comical strangeness and barbarism, his crude command of the English language and strange behaviour all cut pretty close to the bone, but this was white man's prejudice after all and if Goody wanted to feel uncomfortable about it he was welcome, Billy was more concerned with the problems he himself faced daily than some words in a book.

They were hovering in the borderlands of New Mexico territory, lazily and half heartedly hunting down a bounty. It was large enough to be worth the effort, but not to overly exert themselves and in the meantime there was prize-fighting, quick draws and trick shooting.

They had encamped pretty early with a good chunk of daylight still left, Billy was setting up their camp, picketing the horses and Goody was by the fire using the little three-legged spindle to fry flat cornmeal cakes in bacon fat (Goody knowing how to cook was one of the biggest surprises in Billy’s life, the man looked about as useful as a paper bucket in a deluge). They had made it halfway into chapter five of Moby Dick and and Billy was actually looking forward to lighting their lamp and reading this evening. If he laid back, all still and quiet, his head near Goody’s hip, sometimes Goodnight would drop his hand onto his hair, nails scratching sweet and sharp into his scalp in a way that made Billy shiver all over. He had to be very quiet and unobtrusive though, almost feigning sleep,for it to happen.

They had two little round cakes each, and some sweet potato baked in the ashes when the noises of a horse startled them, Goodnight was on his feet and Billy had his hands on his guns when a rider approached the camp at a slow walk.

“Hullo there!” he shouted, waving his arms. Goody nodded and Billy flicked the brim of his had silently, keeping low, shading his face and eyes. It was always best to keep himself as still as possible until any agenda of the stranger had been revealed.

“You boys don’t mind some company?” the man asked. “I'm heading west towards Homily but don't reckon I'll get much further today. Wouldn't mind splitting a fireside and some beans for a bit of salt pork and tobacco.”

Goody glanced and Billy who shrugged minutely. Even if the guy was a robber sent to scoop them out, or a bounty hunter with Billy’s warrant in his pocket, salt pork was salt pork and they could always do away with him afterwards.

“You’re welcome, friend,” Goody said, although his tone weren't that friendly and certainly didn't at all carry that warm burr it did when he called Billy the same thing.

The man, calling himself Wyatt Dell, wasn't actually too bad company. A cowboy and trick rider heading west looking for work. Neither outlaw or lawman, but a farmer’s son with no land, looking for a bit of adventure and to see the sights before settling down. He gave them his full name but Goodnight only touched his hat and said Goody, so Goody and Billy, no last names, they were. Dell did a double take when Billy finally raised his head but he didn't make further comment.

It wasn't until dark had fallen and Goody still had not lit the lamp or fetched the book from his saddlebags that Billy understood. There wouldn't be any reading tonight, no easy warmth from the body next to him and Goody’s voice to draw images from thin air. Two men out alone in the wilderness with iron at their hips could hardly be seen reading bedtime stories to each other. The disappointment tasted sharp and sour in his mouth, unwelcome.

And it struck him that there was something else amiss, that had made him feel off kilter and unsure the whole evening.

Goodnight was on the other side of the fire, out of his reach, further away than he normally would have been and the thing that had been rattling around Billy’s head ever since they took up company clicked in place.

Their normal nearness was suspect, the easy touches and physical closeness was not something that could be written off as the product of a normal friendship. He had suspected it but now Goodnight confirmed it. It was something that needed to be hidden and smoothed away in the company of others. They had to pretend when they could be observed, and Goody doing so was as clear as admitting that there was something to be observed. It made annoyance prickle all over his body and it a fit of what could best be described as pique, he took a deep drag of his cigarette before reaching out and handing it over to Goody.

He watched Dell track the movement but not say anything and felt defiant, angry. Like he had been tricked into something, all the pain he had put into keeping himself hidden from Goody and then his body, his most trusted tool, who'd never let him down before, had betrayed him and told Goody everything he needed to know anyway. And now Goody made decisions for both of them, deciding that this was something they couldn’t show, making Billy complicit,having to follow his lead. Confirming that there was something not innocent about their contact.

Dell stayed in their company for three days until they reached town of Homily and they finally split up. It was the most annoying three days of Billy's life.

It wasn't that Dell was an unbearable person, it was just that he was not welcome. Billy would glare daggers at him whenever he thought he could get away with it and had pretended to understand very little English, at least when Dell spoke, he’d not bothered with pretending he couldn’t understand Goodnight. Goody had been on his most charming behaviour and it was shocking to Billy how well he could see through it by now. Hos superficial the joviality, and genteel charm and outrageous stories really were. The only time they had had to themselves was one evening when Goody was taking care of the horses and Billy had joined him, and suddenly found themselves alone, Dell out looking for firewood.Goody currying the horses and Billy sitting on a rock next to him, reaching out to touch every time Goody stepped close enough. He hadn't realised how much he craved it until they had to stop, he had somehow believed that their contact was casual but their forced companion had shown him otherwise.

There was also the fact that Goodnight hadn't slept more than an hour the whole time. The first night he had offered to take the watch, saying he would wake someone to relieve him later but he never did. Billy tried to make sure he at least got some shuteye before they broke camp every morning but Goody had been steadily growing paler and paler, looking gaunt and tired. Billy understood why he couldn’t sleep, couldn’t take the risk of a nightmare waking up their unwanted companion. It had taken months for him to admit he had them to Billy and there was no way of knowing which nights would be bad.

The hotel in Homily didn’t make too much of a fuss over Billy, he held the bags and walked a couple of steps behind Goodnight and nobody said anything much.

“Is he staying in the room or in the stable?” the clerk asked, with a nod in his direction and Billy controlled his jaw that wanted to clench, and his hands that wanted to make fists.

“He’s staying with me,” Goody said easily, confidently, like his hand would not sneak onto Billy’s neck in silent, heartfelt apology the second they were out of sight.

“I'll put you towards the street,” the clerk said handing them the keys and Goody nodded his head, nearly asleep on his feet.

Their room was facing the street, the window was open and a faded floral curtain swayed in the breeze. There was two narrow iron bed frames with thin mattresses and the sun had bleached squares onto the wallpaper, a chair in the corner and a stand with a jug and a basin. Goody shed his boots and grey coat before flopping into one of the beds, face down, asleep within minutes. Billy unpacked, fetched water, and hung up his jacket and brushed it clean and then stared at the bed with Goody’s sleeping form, sighed and laid down next to him. They were touching from shoulder to hip to toe, and it felt like sinking into a warm bath, tension slowly leaving his body, finally, finally. After a little while Goody made an incoherent noise and turned around, burying his face in Billy's shoulder and throwing a loose arm over him and that was fine too. Billy laid still until Goodnight looked likely to start stirring and then he lightly slipped out from under the arm, feigning sleep in the other bed. Goody blinked at him, mussy from sleep with his hair askew around his face.

“Food,” he said. “Then whiskey, and maybe cards? In any case we’ll have a good old chinwag not interrupted by that idiot all the time.”

This time Billy didn’t even try to hide his smile.

They ended up more than a little drunk, Billy had imbibed quite a bit more than he would usually, in a very disreputable saloon, Billy trying to teach Goody how to play _sho tai ti_ but they were both laughing too hard. Billy barely remembered the game, he used to play with his uncles, and Goody kept asking stupid questions and confusing the rules with poker. Goody was sitting with his chair pulled up close and supporting himself against the backrest of Billy’s chair, shamelessly peeking at his cards and clumsily trying to palm cards, something Billy tried and failed to tell him was futile because the goal was to have as little cards as possible.

They were still pretty giggly when they reached their room, not at all ready to call it a night. Billy poured them drinks from Goody’s flask and they settled down on one of the beds to read, Goody stretched out on his back and Billy draped himself by the foot end, legs out in front of him

“Lets see,where we're we?” Goody said, rifling the pages. “I think here? Yes, looks about right, don't it”.

Goodnight continued reading and much like the proverbial boiled frog who didn’t realize the water was hot until he was already boiled Billy didn’t see where it all was heading. He could see Goody’s tongue dart out to wet his lip when reading the chapter title but he didnt think about it much more than feeling himself involuntarily mirroring the gesture, his own tongue coming out to meet Goody’s.

There should have been warnings, of course, a couple of chapters earlier Billy’s heart had for one second beat hard in his chest hearing about the two men sleeping together in a bed, one with his arm around his companion in a affectionate “bridegroom clasp” but it had so soon disappeared from the narrative that he had thought it would not return. It was odd but a little cheering to hear somebody in a book do what he and Goody did, companionably sharing a smoke, even if they smoked hand rolled cigarettes and not a pipe but it soon got worse. Goody cleared his throat, his voice growing hoarser and hoarser as as he read on.

  
“..when our smoke was over, he pressed his forehead against mine, clasped me round the waist and said that henceforth we were married; meaning, in his country’s phrase , that we were bosom friends; he would gladly die for me if need be.”

  
Goody’s voice wobbled just a little and Billy felt frozen in the spot, the cigarette he had accepted from Goody the moment earlier sitting guiltily between his finger. He didn’t dare to to look. Pressed his forehead to mine and clasped me around the waist, the mere phrase made something ache in Billy, he wanted, yes he wanted that too. Goody’s forehead against his, his arms around his waist, their breath mingling. Meanwhile the narrative just became worse, the white man and his new friend went to bed together but not before sharing their possessions equally between them, equal shares, god damn it, equal shares. Billy wanted to swallow but his tongue was thick in his mouth, the exposing cigarette still between his finger.

  
“Man and wife they say there open the very bottom of their souls to each other; and some old couples often lie and chat over old times till nearly morning. Thus in our heart’s honeymoon, lay I and Queequeg, a cosy loving pair.” Goody finished, sounding half strangled. There was a red flush across his neck and cheeks, making his ears glow. “We had lain thus in bed, chatting and napping at short intervals, and Queequeg every now and then affectionately throwing his brown tatooed legs over mine and then drawing them back; so entierly free and easy and socialble were we...” He cleared his throat. "We maybe should halt there for now?”

  
His eyes flicking to Billy's and darting away again, furtive and guilty.

Quiet as a mouse, without a word said between them Billy slunk off to his own bed. It felt as if there suddenly was a third person in the room with them, who had spied on their easy intimacy and given it shape. That could be us, Billy thought helplessly. We could be married. I could hold his body to mine and say we're married, where you go I’ll go and we’ll never more be parted. I could, if he'd let me.

He hardly dared as much as glance in Goodnight's direction, afraid his face would be like glass and all his thoughts and emotions easily read.

After a while, in silence as heavy and suffocating as a wet blanket Goodnight cleared his throat.

“Billy?” he asked. “I feel like an old card sharp, caught with an ace up his sleeve when he was sure nobody was looking.” Which was pretty much what Billy himself had been feeling, caught out, exposed. He didn’t answer though, only laid as still as he could, trying to make his breath even out. After a while he fell into a light doze only to be startled out of it by Goodnight's whimpering cry. He was curled on his side, breath whistling in his throats and face constricted in anguish. The first time this has happened Billy had just watched on mute confusion, not knowing what to do, if he was expected to do anything at all but now he was used to it and it was a simple thing to shake Goodnight awake and slip into the bed next to him. It took a bit of arranging them before he could fit but pretty soon they were packed like sardines against each other, warm and snug. Goodys sniffling eventually died down and he unconsciously went back to the position he had occupied earlier, his head resting on Billy's shoulder and an arm thrown over him.

After a while Goody sighed. “Oh,mon ami, what troubles we have.”

It was too dark to see Goody's face but he could feel him lift his head and tentatively brush his lips first against Billy's chin, and when he didn't pull away, Goody carefully fitted their mouths together in a dry, secretive kiss. Billy blinked his eyes, and said nothing, only stared straight up at the darkened ceiling, his thoughts churning and Goody sighed again, low and troubled by his side before lying down again, also quiet in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There really are two chapters of Moby Dick which reads like straight up bed sharing fic, if you'd like to check that out I can recommend Moby Dick Big Read, which is excellent. The two chapters in question are 10 and 11, A Bosom Friend and Nightgown (read by Stephen Fry and Neil Tennant so it's not like they don't know what's up). 
> 
> http://www.mobydickbigread.com


	3. Chapter 3

 

Goody was gone the next morning and Billy stared at the empty space in the bed, feeling his heart knock against his ribs in a fast uneasy beat. Goody's bags were gone too and Billy stood for an instant caught in indecision before his pride gave in and he went down to the livery stable, dreading what he would find with every step.

 

There was his own horse and right next to it was Roja, Goody’s chestnut mare. They stretched their necks over the barrier and whinnied low for him when he came in. Just like Goody Roja was skittish and it had taken a good long while for her to trust Billy, the evening when, coming to move their picket for the night, she had flicked her ear forwards and nuzzled and lipped at his hair with her velvet nose had felt like a gift. Like being worthy of trust.

 

So Goody hadn't skipped town. He and his bags was just temporarily gone from their room. Placing his hand on the stable door Billy noticed his hand was bleeding. Without even noticing he had worried his thumb across the nail of his index finger until the thin skin around it had torn, blood ingrained around the nail and into the creases of his knuckle. He frowned at it; Goody had a way of making him excessively emotional where he normally would have no problem keeping his head cool. It made him cross and annoyed, skin itching and spoiling for something akin to a fight. He wanted to get his hands on Goody, shake him up, maybe knock him around a bit. But very well, if Goody had gone then he wouldn't traipse all around town trying to find him. He had his own things to see to.

 

The day as it went, apart from the glaring absence of Goody, was pretty unremarkable. A long list of more or less tedious things to get out of the way until he came to the general store for provisions and tobacco and the proprietor silently pointed at a sign behind his head. Billy didn’t need to spell his painstaking way through it to know what it said, “Management reserve the right to refuse service”, sometimes followed by a long list of undesirables, usually ending with the humorous “and no mothers-in-law” as a little chuckle to those people secure in the knowledge that such a sign would never apply to them. Goody sometimes read them out to Billy while they waited, commenting on the likelihood of the undesirables showing up and demanding service, he’d stand with his hips cocked and his hand on his belt, holding court for Billy alone.

 

On his own this time Billy sighed, wondering if it was worth it to try to push the point.

 

“I just need trail provisions and tobacco,” he tried. “It wouldn’t be any trouble.”

 

One of the men who had been loitering by the door, idly smoking looked up.

 

“You heard the man, _boy,"_  he said. “Now go on, git yourself elsewhere.” He had a red beard stained with tobacco juice and an ugly scar pulling at his cheek, and a greasy brown bowler hat.

 

“This is the only general store in town,” Billy pointed out.

 

“Not his problem now ain’t it,” the bearded man said.

 

“Look,” Billy insisted, he didn't like to pull Goodnight's name into things but he was just about mad enough with him to at least consider it, “my employer sent me out to restock, I can’t go back with nothing. We’re heading out tomorrow and need the food.”

 

The owner of the shop gave him a long look, up and down, taking in the gloves, padded over the knuckles, the collarless shirt missing its top button and the knives and gun in his belt. And then he silently tapped the sign again and demonstrably turned his back.

 

“Now wait a here...” Billy started but didn't get further because a heavy hand landed on his neck and forcefully turned him around.

 

“Go on, get!” the man who had spoken earlier said and had Billy been somebody else he would have been thrown out the door into the street. As it was now it was the overly protective man who fell through the door and landed in the dust.He cursed and got to his feet and Billy relished the opportunity for a fight, to prove himself better than those who slighted him, to work out the dark anxieties that had been hovering in the back of his mind since he woke up to find Goodnight gone.

 

His blood was up and his fists were coiling when he felt a light tap on his shoulder and Goody stepped in between him and the man. He had his bags over his shoulder and Billy only remembered now that he had complained about a loose strap and a broken buckle, meaning to take them to the saddle maker for repair. He had a hand out curved lightly around the other man’s bicep and Billy wanted to snarl at him to step away, take his hands off the stranger.

 

“Now here friend,” Goody said easily “you sure you wanna do that?”

 

“Butt out,” the man told him, jaw jutting out of his face.

 

“Don't you know who this man is?” Goody asked, managing to convey both amazement at the man's ignorance and admiration of his bravery. It set Billy's teeth on edge, Goody’s admiration was his, just as everything else about him.

 

“This is Billy Rocks, he beat both Price T Burr and the Holloran brothers over in Texas last winter. He’s a prize fighter and a mean son of a bitch to boot.” This seemed to daunt the angry man somewhat and he took a mollified step backwards.

 

“Don’t care who he is,” he said sullenly. “Can’t come here and tell Prescott how to run his business.”

 

Goodnight smiled. “No, I reckon any man turning away good money can’t be told how to run a business,” he said and the man frowned, not certain if Goodnight was agreeing with him or not.

 

“Now,” Goody continued, a vulpine look on his face, “You look like a man who knows his way around a fight, if you’re sure you can take him, why not make it a little interesting and make a match out of it?”

 

“Yeah?” the man said, “and who the hell are you?”

 

Goody smiled again, his gold tooth glinting, “I’m his manager.”

 

Walking down to the corral the angry man kept drumming up their business for them,  calling out to people in the street.

“Hey Ennis, Orwell! We’re gonna have us a fight, me and the chinaman! He was trying to tell Prescott his business and now I’m gonna teach him a lesson.”

 

“I thought you were going to stop me,” Billy said in a low undertone to Goody, under the man’s persistent shouting.

 

“Naw, I know you could take him, I just thought it be a shame if you kicked his ass for free,” Goody said easily, fingers wrapping around Billy’s wrist in a brief squeeze. Hidden between their bodies the touch was nearly impossible to detect, a discreet secret and Billy wondered if this was how it was always going to be. Goody making decisions about what was best for him without asking him first, hiding themselves away like this. He wasn’t sure what he wanted exactly but he knew he wanted it badly.

 

The corral at was next to their livery stable, which was good if things turned too ugly. Billy didn’t think he had to kill anyone but these things could go south pretty fast. If the man had as many friends as he claimed they might not take too kindly to seeing their golden boy beaten. While Goody charmed the crowd Billy got ready to fight, removing his waistcoat and shirt, taking out the hairpin, having no wish to scratch himself or be accused of cheating. He kept the knife strapped to his leg though, in case he actually decided to cheat. After a little consideration he removed his boots too, before stepping into the makeshift ring. He held his head high and shoulder wide, aware that the men there might only see his slight stature but anyone who cared to actually look would see the strength and speed coiled in him.

 

It was a little while since he had a fist fight, he and Goody had mostly set up quickdraws or sharp shooting competitions but he had done this too. This was also his trade. As he stepped to the middle of the corral he caught Goody’s eyes on him. Goodnight couldn’t quite look him in the eye and there was a red flush to the back of his neck, his right hand was tucked into his pocket, a sure sign it was shaking.

 

He nodded at him to signal his readiness and the owner of the livery, who had been called upon to be the judge opened the match.

 

There had been no rules agreed upon but Billy figured that biting and gouging still was off limits. They circled a couple of times before he established contact with a light tap and went to work. The man was big, taller,with a wider reach and a tendency to swing so Billy came close instead, preventing his blows to reach their full force, and after that it was only focus and knees and elbows, close under the guard, the only sounds his opponents breath, the feel of sawdust under his feet. The fight takes over and when the man is down on the ground Billy is not even breathing hard.

 

It continues, the crowd is jeering and the man has a friend willing to step into the ring to try it out. Thinks it will be easy now when Billy is tired and he knows how he fights. And he does get Billy good, a solid blow that splits his eyebrow and the skin over his cheekbone but Billy is the winner in the end, so deep into the vortex of the fight he can't even feel it.

 

Goodnight tries to put a stop to the third fight, pressing his neckcloth against Billy’s bricked up eye and rinsing his mouth with alternating water and whiskey.His eyes blue and earnest, seeking Billy’s, tilting his chin up, index fingers on Billy’s temples and thumbs under his jaw. The alcohol stings his mouth as if there are cuts in there. Goody tries to reason with him to not take the fight but Billy won't listen, won't take Goody making decisions for him, steps into the sawdust soaked with blood for a third time in a mix of rage, possession and cold, hard determination.

 

Hed not sure what he's fighting for, or who he's fighting against. Maybe it's all of them, Goody included, seeing him as small, as less than he is. Only a chinaman or a stranger, a rare exotic bird, someone to be turned away.

 

It is not an easy win, but it _is_ a win, and Billy is stumbling by the end of it, reeling like a drunk on unsteady legs and Goodnight comes to put his shoulders under his arm and Billy stands with his arm around him in the middle of the ring and nobody would think twice about it. He wants to bite him, lean over here in front of everyone in the corral and press Goody down in the sawdust and strip him bare, to show them what is his.

 

They have a rowdy entourage  going back to the saloon. One little boy excitedly carting Billy’s boots, another his hat and Goody carrying his belt and gun over one shoulder and Billy himself supported over the other.

 

There is a crowd around them, buying drinks and shaking Goody’s hand even though he’s not had to wave his name around even once. Most people doesn't seem to mind that Billly is a damned celestial, as long as a white man can get the credit. It's a rowdy evening but he and Goody are swept up in a bubble of calm. Billy is shirtless and pressed up against Goody, so close he's nearly in his lap, and nobody says anything at all. One of the saloon girls gets him a rag and a pail of hot water and Goody sends one of the boys away for ice. Their table is thronged and Goody makes caring for him into a show, his mysterious Oriental prize fighter as impervious to pain as he is to pleasure. Goody puts two cigarettes in his mouth to light them and hands Billy one while he wipes his knuckles and ices his hands. He takes Billy’s hand in his own to press a rag soaked in ice and whiskey against the cut on his cheek and make him keep it there. He talks and makes jokes and Billy is quiet but looks every man there in the eye and obediently allows Goody to care for him. He still hasn’t put his shirt on but the saloon is warm enough by now, the other patrons pressing in and the drink flowing fast enough for Billy not to feel the cold. Goody has draped his shirt over his shoulders in any case. Their table is littered with glasses and blood soaked rags and plates for the ice and in the midst of it Goody are spinning stories about Billy’s prowess in a fight, referencing each blow with an ease that is belied by the tension around his eyes and the minute twitch in his fingers. After a while Billy puts his hand into the hook of Goody’s elbow and lets it rest there and the tremor subsides.

 

It’s late when the commotion finally died down and they retired to their room and when the door finally closes Goody sighs heavily.

 

“I’ll not to that again for a month of Sundays,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. Billy doesn’t say anything, just unbuckled his knife belt and hung it up on the bedpost. Restless energy was still crackling up and down his spine, but he knew it would soon wear off and leave him too tired even to stand. He was putting his undershirt on, stepping up to Goodnight to make him help with the buttons, Billy’s hand’s too stiff to manage. The sharp pain had shifted into a mute dull aching, he knows it’s there but if he doesn’t provoke it he can pretend he’s numb.Tomorrow he’ll have a good soak at the bath house and get Goody to go over his back and ribs with the horse liniment. Nagging him about his health like a grandmother the whole time no doubt.

 

“There you go now,” Goody said as he buttoned the top and patted his hand over Billy’s collarbone, his eyes turned away, hand warm through the fabric. And Billy closed his eyes and opened them again and then slid his arm around Goody’s waist, pulling him in close and pressed their foreheads together.

 

“We should be married,” he said quietly, allowing his accent to thicken, to let the words be blunt, unfamiliar shapes in his mouth. Goodnight breathed out shakily, his arm coming up to hook behind his shoulder and he nodded ,his eyes closed hard and so close Billy could feel his lips moving against this skin as he whispered something inaudible.

 

“Yes,” he agreed.

 

Billy held him tighter, pressing his bricked up face against Goody's, the ridge of his eyebrow digging into his black eye until the pain was searing and sharp, pounding in time with his heartbeat.

 

“I'll not be your tame savage,” he said. “I'll never talk funny for you. You don’t get to make decisions about what's best for me.”

 

“Billy we have to be careful…”

 

“And we will,” he soothed, “but look at today, we use _this_ , we use what we are to make us strong, if we are together we are strong. We don't hide. Equal shares.”

 

Billy could feel Goodnight breathe in his arms, could feel his eyelashes flutter and when he wet his lip with his tongue, the tip almost touched his own mouth.

“We can pretend we share equally,” Goody said, painfully “but we both know that ain't true. We both know I'm the liability here.”

 

 _I don't care_ Billy thought but he knew this wasn't an answer which would help Goodnight. _I have fought for you, your nightmares and your drinking, your haunted eyes, I've fought for them all and conquered. You're mine now, won fair and square, just as I won in the corral._

 

“You’re strong,” Goodnight continued, “you can fight and look after yourself. Me, I’m useless, I'm yellow, a coward, not good for anything anymore, only blowing hot air,” the words he’s only said in the night before, coming out of nightmares or those frightening white hazes that take him sometimes, when his eyes are open but he’s not seeing what’s in front of them.

 

“I've seen you hit sand,” Billy murmured and Goody sighed.

 

“Billy, listen,” he said with finality, beginning to push him away Billy clung harder.

 

“Stay,” he said. “Don’t say yes and not mean it, please.” The word slipped from his lips like a smooth pebble and he leaned in and kissed Goodnight, inexperience and eagerness made him clumsy. He had not begged a white man for anything since he killed his first master, but it felt easy now begging Goody.

 

“Please, stay” he said, “please, show me, let me, please, _please_.”

 

For a moment he felt himself flounder, their teeth clicking wetly, painfully together and then Goody was there with him, calming the frantic kiss, making it into something smoother, slower, his hands roaming over Billy’s hip and back.

 

To Billy his body had always been an instrument, or a tool, trusted and honed to be strong and deadly; that it could be for pleasure had always been almost like an afterthought, a byproduct. Whenever he had touched himself or anybody else it had been short by necessity, over quickly.

 

This was nothing like that, it was a shock to him, stunning, that he could even be made to feel like this. Goody’s hands felt so good, felt like they burned where they touched him, and he wanted to press into them. And Goody was slow, methodical, finding each spot on Billy’s body that made him gasp and whine, carefully trailing over his skin with hands and mouth. It was overwhelming, he had to wind his arms around Goody’s shoulder and bury his face in his neck because it was too much. The had fallen down on one of the narrow beds, Billy's hands persistently clinging to Goodys collar, unable to persuade them to move while Goody was gently, gently getting him out of his shirt he helped him get into, his knuckles brushing Billy's skin with each button. Billy rolling his hips and bucking into the air, whining and keening for the mindless pleasure of it. When Goodnight got his trousers undone and swallowed him down, he bucked like an unbroken colt, cursing and panting. Billy had to push him away decisively before he was thrown over the edge, the pleasure too intense, too fast.

 

“No, stop!” he said forcefully and Goody's eyes clouded over and he withdrew, alarm on his face, and Billy had to haul him back.

 

“No,” he said again, softer, sweaty and wild-eyed, kissing Goody’s hands, his fingertips, palms, wrists struggling to explain what he meant.

 

”No, you show me, please,” he placed Goody’s hands on top of his own before letting them rest on Goody’s shoulders, ready to be guided. He hated to admit the disadvantage but was too far gone to care. Goody smiled, soft and genuine and pulled him close, drawing his hands over skin,showing him where to touch, how to touch, how it was different from his own body, how it was the same.

 

Goody’s body was warm. His shoulders were narrower than Billy's and bonier, sharp bumps and divots, his hands were rough, and large enough to fan out comfortably over Billy's hips, holding him steady. Billy already knew his wiry strength but it was different finding out first hand, where his skin was soft and vulnerable, where is hair was coarse, the startling contrast between his tanned face and neck and the paleness of his stomach and inner thighs. It was heady, making Billy feel drunk, drunk from kissing Goody’s skin, the noises he made. It felt like power, like the rush of a fight, but it was better, because this was theirs together. Goody’s legs felt raspy where they rubbed against his, his chest had a scattering of pale hair which was still more than his own. He drew it out as much as he could, until Goody’s breath was hitching, and his eyes closed and he was begging, telling Billy every last filthy detail about how much he wanted him, where he wanted him, what he wanted to do to him, and Billy nods, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat and Goody sucks his fingers into his mouth, tongue curling around them to make them slick and wet, shows him how to take them both in hand, just so and and it's too good, too good, too good, and he spills over Goody’s pale stomach, chest heaving in great dizzying gulps.

 

Coming out of it is like surfacing from deep waters, he’s flopped on his side and Goody’s hand is slowly, slowly trailing through his hair and the only thing he wants to do is to get closer, crack Goody’s chest open and crawl inside. He turns around, buries his face against Goody’s ribs instead, snuffling, and with effort throws a trembling arm over his stomach and falls asleep. If he has dreams he can't remember them.

 

He woke up with the top of his head practically jammed into Goody’s armpit, mouth still latched on to the thin skin over his ribs and face pressed into the wet spot of drool he'd left there during the night. His arm was around Goody in a vice grip, bridegroom clasp indeed, and his bare feet was hanging off the bed. It felt like possibly a horse, or a moderately sized donkey, had sat down on his head. When he raised his head, lips numb and mouth dry and uncomfortably aware the saliva smeared over his cheeks, Goody smiled at him, soft and happy.

 

“Ain't you a sight for sore eyes,” he said as Billy tried to get his dry eyes to cooperate staring at him blearily, when he licked his lips, his tongue felt like a piece of leather (He was, Goodnight showed him his reflection in his shaving glass later. His black eye was turning purple and the skin over his cheekbone was mottled brown-green and his hair was sticking up something awful at the back, beaten, hungover and covered in drool).

 

He got up on wobbly legs and rather noisily relieved himself in the chamber pot and then unthinkingly drank most of the water left in the jug by the basin.

 

“You didn't wash in that?” he asked when he dropped back into bed, Goody watching him with a look of amusement.

 

“Would it matter?” Billy curled into Goody’s side again, feeling the water rolling in his belly.

 

“Not really,”  he groaned and Goodnight laughed at him.

 

“How do you feel?” Goody asked, hand stroking soothingly over his shoulder and neck and Billy considered this for a moment.

 

“Deflowered,” he said at last and Goody choked.

 

“We didn't, that wasn't…” he sputters. “I didn't know,” he ended up with, looking contrite. “I would have...Besides, uh, you know, there wasn’t, we didn’t…” he makes a very illustrative gesture.

 

“We definitely did something,” Billy said and Goody blushed even worse.It was sort of cute.

 

“Yeah, but there was no, um, no sodomy happening. Or actually there was a bit  sodomy there, but no buggery.”

 

“Mhm,” Billy agreed. “We’ll get to it later,” and Goody choked again, his stomach jumping under Billy’s hands.  After a while he poked Goody in the side.

 

“I want coffee ,” he said, head still buried between the matress and Goody’s side. “And eggs.” Billy paused and considered a little. “And toast.”

 

Goody looked down at him indulgently. “And I've always wanted a bathtub out of solid gold,” he said in a conversational tone, making no move to get up. Billy poked him again, harder.

 

“ _You_ get me coffee,” he ordered and Goody laughed.

 

“All right cher, just for you, this once.” Given the state of his own shameless nudity Goody was practically already dressed, only needing his shirt and boots before he was decent enough go down the stairs, albeit in his shirtsleeves, and Billy stayed alone in the bed.

 

He felt sore, debauched and a little vulnerable even, probably not unlike Cordelia of the diaphanous nightie when she woke up after succumbing to Don Alonzo viles and found him fled in the morning. Although it was as hard to imagine Goody as a mustache twirling villain as himself like a dimwitted waif. Also Goody was not fled. But well, he supposes he was more innocent in some ways yesterday than he is today.

 

In the end Goody returned with hot, strong coffee in a tin cup and fried eggs with bread and Billy ate it in bed, with dried come still flaking on his chest, and his knuckles bruised.

 

“I like being a married man,” he told Goody, allowing himself a sunny smile in his direction and Goody laughed, his undignified snort sounding so relieved Billy knows he’s glad he brought it up. After a while Goody sat down next to Billy in the bed and pulled him close, sharing coffee and a cigarette while the sun crept through the room. Goodnight took a drag on the cigarette, passing it over to Billy and stole the coffee cup instead, peering into the dark liquid like it held the secrets of the universe.

 

“If you’ll have me,” he said at last. “Such as I am.”

 

Billy took his hand and laced their fingers together. “Goodnight Robicheaux,” he said solemnly. “Will you marry me?” He looked Goody deeply in his eyes. “You’re getting a bit long in the tooth and unlikely to get any better offers….”

 

He laughed at Goody’s undignified squawk and kept laughing through his rather clumsy attempt to clobber him with a pillow and it was only when he caught hold of his shoulders and kissed him Goody stopped. “Billy Rocks, I swear to God,I take it back…”

 

“No, no” Billy interrupted him kissing his face. “No takebacks, according to my country’s custom we’re married now.” When Goody just looked at him with raised eyebrows he elaborated. “In Joseon if you spend a night of hot, sticky pleasure and then hit the person with a pillow it means you’re married. Very sacred vow.”

 

And Goody finally laughed, rumbling and warm and laid himself better back into the bed. “Ok, can’t argue with that.” he said, sounding contented. Goodnight leaned over and kissed his forehead, burying his face in Billy’s hair, his voice so quiet Billy wouldn’t have heard him if he wasn’t just by his ear.

 

“Whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people. Where you die, I will die and there I will be buried,” he murmured, and heat blossomed in Billy’s chest like a bright red flower. Billy caught Goody’s hand and kissed to the inside of the palm, to the wrist.

 

“Where you go I’ll go,” he said simply and Goody smiled at him. They rode out of Homily together, Goody keeping Roja close enough so they can ride knee to knee, the sky stretching bright and endless above them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who is Price T Burr and the Holloran brothers? I sure as hell don’t know and I don’t think Goody does either.
> 
> Goody is quoting from the Book of Ruth 1:16-17, Ruth’s vow of fidelity to Naomi.It’s a common reading for weddings along with Corinthians 13:4-8 (love is patient, love is kind). I primarily know the quote from where its used to great lesbian effect in the novel Fried Green Tomatoes (I have said I’m an Old, right?). He is also using the King James wording, because he's dramatic like that.


	4. Epilouge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are non-detailed spoilers for the end of Moby Dick in this chapter. If you were really looking forward to finding out how that one pans out, maybe skip this.

Three months later they are still reading Moby Dick and Billy is sort of wishing they weren’t. 

 

He knows more about whales and boats now than can ever be practically useful for a person living in a desert. And it just seems to never end, and while he is interested in the story, in Ahab’s madness (he has to admit that the carved ivory peg leg is pretty classy and if he ever lost a leg that’s what he’s do too) and Ishmael and Queequeg, it seems like for every chapter where something interesting happens there are at least two that just goes on to discuss whaling in interminable details. There is only so much about thrusting bows and pulleys and seamen one person can take after all. Besides, if it before was their habit to be close and leaning on each other when Goody read, they are now rather companionably entwined and well, he gets distracted. 

 

(“Squeeze! Squeeze! Squeeze! All the morning long; I squeezed that sperm until I myself almost melted into it; I squeezed that sperm until an almost strange insanity came over me…” Billy, no cher,  _ stop _ laughing. There is absolutely  _ nothing _ funny about the word “sperm” in this context and if you’re going to snicker everytime I say “spermaceti” this will take forever...oh you asked for it, come here I’ll give you something to laugh about.)

 

The pleasure and intensity can still hit him too hard, make him loopy and desperate, too overstimulated to quite keep up, but Goody always waits these moments out; when all he can do is hold on as tightly as he can and try to breathe through it, Goody pets and soothes him. He enjoys that too, being held like he’s precious and rare but also having the power firmly put back into his own hands. Goody will never do anything he doesn’t want him to, and if Billy can’t articulate what he wants then Goody waits until he can. 

 

He's a quick learner though and the sweet triumph of taking Goody apart piece by piece is enough to spur him on, to go further, to test his self control a little bit longer.  They are learning each other and Billy enjoys this new dimension to their relationship, how he can distract Goody from almost anything with just a well placed look or touch, making him trail off from the most long-winded story by just leaning closer to him, leaving him quiet with an addled look on his face. How he can look up from having a meal, thoughtlessly having stuck his fork in his mouth to have his hands free for something else and find Goody staring at his lips with a desperation that's bordering on comical. He finds that he enjoys being looked at. He finds he enjoys looking right back too. 

 

Regarding the book Billy has turned out to be unexpectedly squeamish, refusing his dinner after a chapter about gutting the half rotted carcass of a whale and creeping into the head cavity to retrieve ambergris. 

 

“Aw sugar,” Goody says reasonably “didn't you just last week kick a man in the face and then finish your plate and half of mine too?”

 

“Didn't crawl into any cavity after,” Billy says and Goody laughs. 

 

“Crawled into my cavity right enough,” he says and winks and Billy honest to God blushes, because that was true, that was the first time he and Goody shared, himself still hot after the fight and Goody guiding him inside himself, head thrown back in blissful pleasure as Billy thrust into him and the memory still seared into his bones. 

 

“You were not dead a week!” he answers, trying to recover, as if his mind has not instantly zipped to the moment of sliding into Goody, bottoming out, arousal licking hotly along his spine.

 

“No, I was in fact very lively, as I recall,” Goody replied with a crooked smile, “But you're being unfair, sugar. They actually didn't know how long that whale been dead. Could've been much longer than a week, that blubber was well and truly rotted through.”

 

Billy made a retching sound, and tried to pry the book from Goody’s hands, laughing and if they end up predictably grinding in the dirt he’s not complaining.

  
  


The finish Moby Dickwhile wintering up North, They're staying in a hotel and it’s January with the snow piling up outside the windows and the room so cold the water has frozen in the jug on the basin. Billy’s burying the tip of his ice cold nose at the base of Goody’s neck, his hands tightly tucked around his chest and not a millimeter of space between their bodies.

 

“On the second day, a sail drew nearer, and picked me up at last. It was the devious-cruising Rachel, that in her retracing search after her missing children, only found another orphan.”

 

“That’s how it ends?” he asks quietly.

 

“Yeah,” Goody says and Billy burrows closer.  

 

“I don’t like that, that was sad” he says and Goody twines their fingers together.

 

“Yeah,” he says, again, his tone sombre.

 

“Poor Ishmael,” Billy says.

 

“He survived though? Worse for everyone going down with the ship.” Billy shakes his head, even though Goody can’t see it.

 

“Worse to be alive alone,” he says and Goody kisses his fingers,one by one. 

 

“Where you go, I’ll go,” he says, and turns warm and living in Billy’s arms, kissing him full on the mouth.

 

“Where else would you go, you got somewhere better to be?” Billy says yawning, and Goody laughs and pokes him in the ribs chasing there sombre mood away. Where you go I’ll go, and where you die, I’ll die and there I’ll be buried, he thinks sleepily before falling asleep, Goody tightly tucked under his arm, as things should be.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that is really a verbatim quote from chapter 94 "A Squeeze of The Hand" It would probably have read differently to a more contemporary audience but yeah, its wild. I could not make that up on my own. 
> 
> Thank you so much to anyone who takes the time to leave kudos or comment. I love all of them and the tiniest comment puts a smile on my face for the whole day.


End file.
